Breaking that pause, out of nowhere, some kids went screaming down the hallway right outside the door and I wondered how the hell anyone could live like this. Their yells trailed off.
“Anyway, Chicago PD was tipped off because Speedo couldn’t shut the fuck up. Somebody told somebody. I don’t know who it was, never did and it really don’t matter. They come down on me and Speedo both. Your dad catches word of that and heads for the hills, just in time. And I do mean just in time.”
He takes another swig of Jameson. Clears his throat and tries to straighten up in the chair but catches his breath and can’t do it.
“So Speedo lawyers up with this guy who knew people. People downtown. Powerful guy. Don’t know how Speedo got hooked up with that guy but his ass was in good shape. He says he was just the driver, he was just somebody your dad and I had drug in at the last minute. Bullshit on top of bullshit.”
“Keep going, Jimmy,” Mick says. “You’re doing good.”
“Well, the city was, like, embarrassed, right? Because of it being an international crime and all. They didn’t really give a fuck about hammering us. They just wanted it all to go away. So when Speedo coughed up where I hid the jewels, well, his lawyer hit a homerun for Speedo. Fucker ends up spending a couple months, I think. I go away for three, and hey, no big deal there for what we did, right? Three years is three years, boys.”
“Considering everything?” Mick said, and gave his head a little shake. “No, not all that bad. So?”
“This bullshit with me and him has never been about the time I had to serve. It’s always been about his big fuckin’ mouth ruining a perfect take. Been about him fuckin’ your dad and me over. Been about Speedo screwing me out of my half of the bar…and him trying to kill me at one point. That’s what it’s been about.”
Mick was looking at Jimmy real close as he was talking, just like cops do. He wasn’t just listening, he was watching him like a fuckin’ hawk, looking for tells like poker players do.
“You know what, though?” Jimmy says, staring off at the wall. “Yeah, Speedo told the cops where to find the stuff. He was a rat fuck piece of shit …but they only found the necklace, right? They didn’t never find the earrings. At least, I don’t think?”
Jimmy looks at us both. “Or did they?”
Neither of us answer.
Jimmy shrugs. “My guess was always your dad found a way to hang onto them. And you know, whatever. Better than fuckin’ Speedo Mullins getting them.”
Mick patted him on the shoulder and we stood to leave. He was taking a long pull off that Jameson when we closed his door. As we walk out of the building, I look over at Mick and can tell he was thinking hard on something.
“What are you thinking about, Hero? How’s that match up with your inside guy’s information?”
“Well, what do you think, based on what Speedo told you?”
“Fucking cop. Always answering a question with a question.” Mick didn’t react, so I shrugged. “All right, here’s what I think. I think that poor little fucker up there is telling the truth and I think Speedo Mullins is a liar. A fat, gimpy ass, liar.”
Mick looks at me, spits and then smiles.
“What the fuck does that mean, detective?”
“That means that this is one of the few times that you and I will ever, ever agree on anything.”
We walk all the way back to the train station, five blocks or so, without saying anything. Too much to think about.
TWENTY
Mick
The train ride was long and quiet. Jerzy was quiet because he was obviously hung over. Plus, I think the pitiful Jimmy Kerrigan actually got to the heartless bastard just a little.
But there was something more, too. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I could sense it.
That made me smile. Gar was famous for his almost prey-like instinct when it came to trouble. He could sense subtle nuances that were out of kilter. I never knew him well enough as an adult to determine if his wisdom went far enough to know exactly what was wrong, or if it stopped at merely knowing that something was wrong. The first was a high echelon gift. The second was more common, but still a valuable trait. Gar had passed it on to Jerzy and me in spades.
I used to think we used it for different purposes. Now I know we only honed the natural ability into a skill in different places. Him more in the criminal world, me on the job. It didn’t matter, though. We both used what gifts the old man bestowed upon us to survive.
That’s how I knew something was up with Jerzy. But I didn’t know what. Maybe it didn’t matter.
“The fuck you smiling at?” Jerzy asked, half grunting out the words.
I shrugged. “Just that we’re doing exactly what the old man wanted us to.”
“What? Working together?”
“No. Jumping through hoops to the tune he’s whistling, even from the grave.”
Jerzy gave me a long stare. His eyes were never hard to read when it came to compass points — mad, thoughtful, challenging, whatever. But looking for any kind of detail in those eyes was nearly impossible.
Finally, he just shrugged himself and said, “Whatever. I do what I want to do. I don’t give a shit if it happens to be what someone else wants, too. They don’t matter. And that includes the old man.”
Yeah, I thought. Except your voice gives you away.
As much as my brother hated the old man, like I did, he idolized him, too.
Standing on the train, swaying as it clacked its way down the track, I guess you could say that in my own way, I did, too.
Speedo’s bar was as big a shithole as Jimmy’s apartment. Aside from the few stray dollars that must come in from the dregs of the boozers, I don’t think Speedo was any better off for having won possession of the bar. Hell, Jimmy probably makes more slinging parking stubs out at Comiskey. And he gets out in the sun for that.
“I got this,” Jerzy told me as we came through the door. “I’m about fed up with this gimpy motherfucker, anyway.”
Our good cop/psycho abusive cop routine worked pretty well on Jimmy, but Speedo was probably another matter. Jerzy had already visited him, so he didn’t really need the good cop.
The bartender looked up once we were a few steps inside. “Aw, fuck. You again?”
“Hello, Tommy,” Jerzy said, his voice smooth and deadly.
Tommy the bartender didn’t look like any slouch. He was stocky, built like a fireplug, but Jerzy’s had forty pounds plus on him. His eyes were wary but calm. I put some space between Jerzy and I, just in case he had a gun under the bar.
“Where’s your boss, buttfuck?” Jerzy asked, his polite tone contrasting with his choice of words.
A little flare of anger flashed in Tommy’s eyes, but his only reaction was to clench his jaw slightly. “Speedo’s not here.”
“Bullshit.”
“No bullshit. He’s gone home for the day.”
Jerzy nodded like he believed him. Then he ambled up to the bar and took a seat. “Well, me and my brother here will have a drink and wait for him. Hit me with a double of Grandad’s. Neat.” He glanced over at me. “He’ll have a Roy Rogers.”
Tommy’s expression softened slightly at the jibe. He poured Jerzy’s drink and slid it in front of him wordlessly. Then he looked over at me.
I sat down several bar stools away. “Roy Rogers was a cowboy,” I said “and I’m a city boy.” I motioned at Jerzy’s glass. “Same as him.”
Tommy poured and slid and said not a word. Jerzy watched and when I had my glass, he raised his own.
“Na zdrowie.”
I smiled. “Slainte.”
He smiled back.
We drank.
Jerzy slammed his glass down on the bar, causing Tommy to jump a little. Jerzy’s grin turned cruel. The glint in his eye had a sadistic shade to it. He crooked a finger at Tommy and beckoned him close.